


stay gold

by bronigiri



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bottom Miya Atsumu, Canon Compliant, Domesticity, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Sibling Incest, Slice of Life, Smut, Summer Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25428373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronigiri/pseuds/bronigiri
Summary: There was probably a line dividing the types oflovethat normal people felt. But that divide never quite manifested for Osamu. Instead, his singular love for Atsumu bled over and dyed everything in vivid hues. Like a droplet of wet paint on a watercolour page, spreading to the farthest corners it could reach. He doesn’t know how to view the world in any other way. He never wants to.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Miya Osamu
Comments: 33
Kudos: 332





	stay gold

**Author's Note:**

> Ch. 402 filled me with so many feelings. I still can't believe it's over. ;_; <3

Kita Shinsuke is an expert with grandmas. Despite it being his very first visit to Onigiri Miya, the neighbourhood grannies quickly take to him as their new favourite. Chattering animatedly in front of the television screen, Kita recounts tidbits of their highschool lives, voice bursting with a pride Osamu feels from head to toe.

“There he is!” Kita points. “He was on my team in high school.”

The grannies _ooh_ and _ahh._ “He’s just as handsome as Osamu-chan!”

Osamu pretends not to hear it. His eyes are fixated on Atsumu. He looks great on camera, and he has a commanding air around him that Osamu doesn’t. Where Osamu needs only to captivate the eyes of one person, Atsumu is the kind of person that captivates all eyes around the world. Atsumu discusses something with Kageyama, and Aran cuts in with a tsukkomi remark that Osamu can’t hear, but the dynamic is so hilariously familiar that he laughs, anyway. It feels like he’s there with them, until the camera cuts out to focus on the Argentinian players.

A timer beeps in the kitchen, so Osamu darts back in to check on the stove. When he’s finished, he looks out from behind the counter at the newly expanded shop. A round, cute toddler munches messily on onigiri while her older brother, wearing an Oikawa Tooru jersey, points excitedly at the screen. He tugs at his mother’s sleeve but his parents are not paying attention, too busy making eyes at each other like newlyweds. To the right-hand side, the two grannies, in the same spot they occupy every week, sip their tea and reminisce about the star players of their own high schools while Kita nods in understanding.

Osamu is at home here, he knows. Here, he’s surrounded by all types of love. Love for food, love for sport, love for family and friends, love for romantic partners. 

There was probably a line dividing the types of _love_ that normal people felt. But that divide never quite manifested for Osamu. Instead, his singular love for Atsumu bled over and dyed everything in vivid hues. Like a droplet of wet paint on a watercolour page, spreading to the farthest corners it could reach. He makes onigiri, and thinks about his brother’s eyes lighting up with joy as he gobbles it up. He watches volleyball on television and thinks about a high-arching, perfect set, carefully engineered to bring the very best out of his own spike. He doesn’t know how to view the world in any other way. He never wants to. 

He hears the game start on the television, and in a bout of adrenaline, he hops the counter to join Kita and the grannies in watching it.

The game is surreal, a whirlwind of excitement and endorphins even halfway across the country through a 42-inch flat-screen TV. Every time Atsumu sets, dangling Japan’s monsters from his fingers to execute a flawless play, Osamu pumps his fists in the air. Every time Atsumu rolls out the hybrid serve and smashes it straight into the edge of the court, Osamu shouts with joy. Osamu likes to think that the victory is theirs, that he and his negitoro helped when Atsumu was in his little slump, but really, it’s all Atsumu. At the point when their paths diverged, Atsumu took all of his and Osamu’s shared experience and honed it into something better.

To say that it’s a close game would be an understatement. Osamu holds his breath every time Oikawa serves, and feels the urge to close his eyes when Argentina pulls a 23-20 lead in the last set— but then they bring in Aran as pinch server, and Japan turns it around, being the banquet of monsters that they are. The winning point is scored, unconventionally, with Atsumu setting to _Kageyama_ of all people in an all-Japan synchronous attack, the kind of ballsy move that you don’t save for the final point of your final set unless you are Miya Atsumu.

Osamu doesn’t cry, not even when the grannies do, not even when _Kita_ cries. It feels surreal, like he doesn’t quite know how to emote with Atsumu all the way on the other side of the country. Like he can’t truly process it until Atsumu is at his side once again.

They drink to celebrate, Osamu and Kita sharing a pitcher of Sapporo, and the grannies with a healthy dose of warm sake. It took Osamu years to learn that Kita Shinsuke is human and not some carefully calibrated machine, but he still can’t get used to it, seeing an alcohol-induced flush on Kita’s cheeks as he puts a hand on Osamu’s shoulder and says, “I’m real proud of you.”

“I’m not Atsumu,” says Osamu. Perhaps Kita really _is_ drunk.

“I know, Osamu,” says Kita with a chuckle. “But you were there on the court, too. I felt it.” 

* * *

Osamu is curled up on the couch, half-asleep at two in the morning, when the key turns in the lock. He sits up straight as a rod, expecting Atsumu to kick down the door and announce his entrance as Olympic Gold Medalist and The Better Twin. But Atsumu creaks the door open quietly, removes his shoes in near silence and tiptoes across the floorboards, and that alone fills Osamu with incomprehensible emotion.

Of course, Atsumu becomes loud and boisterous the minute he sees that Osamu is awake. Osamu jumps off the couch and meets Atsumu halfway as he tackles him into a hug. He feels Atsumu’s wordless shout of joy reverberate against his chest. They jump up and down in excitement, like that, holding one another for several minutes before finally breaking apart.

“You were amazing,” says Osamu. “Fuck. ‘Tsumu, you were _incredible.”_

Atsumu grins, the tips of his ears going a little pink. “Yeah, I know, right? You should’ve been there.”

“I should’ve,” Osamu concedes. He regrets not being able to take off work. He doesn’t regret the choice he made, the point at which their paths forked off, and he knows they’re both happier this way— still, not being able to share every important moment of their lives sometimes eats away at him. 

“I got you a little something, though.” 

“I told’ya I don’t need souvenirs,” says Osamu. But what Atsumu pulls out of his bag is not an overpriced piece of Olympics merchandise, but the gold medal itself.

Brand new and glistening, smooth to the touch, he presents it in front of Osamu. Osamu strokes a finger reverently along the surface, a cookie-cutter piece of a dream come true. A dream that he no longer shares the way he once thought he would, but a dream that he cherishes nonetheless, if only for the way Atsumu’s face _radiates_ as he holds it like it was made for him.

“For you,” says Atsumu. “What’s yours is mine, yeah?” Osamu’s heart knocks helplessly against his chest. “Here! Let me put it on for ya.”

Too stunned to speak, Osamu lowers his head as Atsumu raises the medal up and over his head.

“Shoyo told me a story,” says Atsumu. “Said back in Brazil, his beach volleyball partner told ‘im he was gonna propose to his girlfriend if they won their last game. And he lost!” Atsumu tosses his head back and laughs. “So I was like— I’m gonna do that, except _better,_ because I’m gonna _win._ I’m gonna kick Argentina’s ass in front of the whole world, wearin’ ‘Samu’s jersey— and then I’m gonna ask him to marry me.” 

In that moment, Osamu forgets how to breathe. The world around them stops turning. Everything narrows down to the point where Atsumu is touching him, draping the ribbon gently around his neck. The gold rests, solid and heavy, in the centre of his chest, where he can feel the thudding of his heart and a wellspring of emotion rising up, up, until it bursts.

The tears fall down his face before he knows it, fat droplets cascading down his cheeks. He doesn’t even bother to wipe them away, just stands there, shoulders shaking like a fool, clutching the medal against his chest.

“‘Samu?” Atsumu’s face is blurry, but his voice is mildly alarmed. “‘Samu, why’re you—”

“What kind of stupid proposal is this?” Osamu blurts out. He swipes hastily at his eyes to see the look of shock on Atsumu’s face. “You’re such a dumbass. Don’t you know how to propose to somebody properly? Where’s the ring? Huh?”

“What— there are _five!”_ Atsumu grabs the medal and shoves it in Osamu’s face, jabbing at the Olympics symbol imprinted on gold. “That’s _way_ better than one!”

“Screw that! Where’s my fancy dinner? You’re s’pposed to at least take me out to dinner and get down on one knee or somethin’. What’s with this half-assed proposal?”

“Excuse me— half-assed? I won _Olympic gold_ and yer callin’ me _half-assed?_ Do you know how fuckin’ hard I worked for this—”

Atsumu’s reply is cut off by the muffled sound of Osamu crashing their lips together. He holds onto the nape of Atsumu’s neck, and kisses him as hard, as deep, as he possibly can. The salt from his own tears lingers on their tongues. Atsumu lets out a surprised sound into the kiss, and relaxes as he finally understands. 

“Yes,” Osamu says as he pulls away to press their foreheads together.

“Huh?” says Atsumu. His eyes are glazed over in that way they sometimes are when Osamu has kissed the last brain cell out of him.

 _“Yes,_ ‘Tsumu,” Osamu repeats. He thumbs the strand of spit off the corner of Atsumu’s swollen bottom lip, and kisses it again, softer this time. “Does that answer your question?”

“Oh,” says Atsumu. And then, his entire face lighting up— _“Oh.”_

He surges forward again, catching Osamu’s lips in his own like he can’t get enough, a sentiment Osamu fully understands. He backs Atsumu up against the door, and kisses him until he knows nothing else but the body that melts against his own. 

He pulls away again only when he’s dizzy and so short of breath he might fall over. Atsumu is flushed even redder this time, his hair a complete mess. 

“So—” He clears his throat. “Ya weren’t serious about needin’ a ring, right? Because I thought about it, and if I wore one it’d get in the way of my tosses, and if _you_ wore one you'd get rice all over it.” 

Osamu shakes his head. “I don’t need one,” he says, cupping Atsumu’s cheek in his hand. “I don’t need anything. I’ve always been yours. From the beginning. And to the end.”

Atsumu’s eyes go soft as his mouth gravitates towards him again, and Osamu welcomes it with a smile, and pushes back gently, encircling a hand at the nape of Atsumu’s neck and thumbing the spot just below his ear. Atsumu shudders against him, and the kisses start to veer towards a different direction. Osamu trails his lips down Atsumu’s jaw and sucks at his neck. Atsumu’s hip pulses against his own, and Osamu lets out a stifled grunt. He feels himself getting hard, too. It’s been a while, after all.

They stumble over to the bedroom, and as Atsumu strips off his clothes Osamu puts a hand on his shoulder, feeling suddenly emboldened. “Keep this on.”

“What, this?”

“Just the jacket.”

Atsumu raises an eyebrow, and does as told. Red looks good draped over his shoulders. Osamu then returns Atsumu’s earlier gesture, hanging the gold medal around his neck, a beautiful centerpiece on Atsumu’s toned chest.

“Wow,” says Atsumu. _“Wow._ You kinky fucker.”

“You gave it to me,” says Osamu. “I can do what I want with it.”

Atsumu purses his lips. “Be careful with it, okay? This thing’s, like, my baby. Our baby?”

“‘Course,” says Osamu, ignoring the biological impossibility of _that._ “I’ll even let you set the pace.”

Atsumu clambers onto his lap, sweetly pliant as he lets Osamu finger him open. And then he rides him, slow and teasing at first, coy smile dropping off his face as he builds up speed and grows desperate. Osamu watches his cock disappear into Atsumu, and watches Atsumu’s thighs straining to keep himself upright, as his own cock bobs against his stomach, inches away from the gold. 

Atsumu’s letting out these gorgeous little noises, half-bitten moans and _ohs_ and _ahs_ , and Osamu swallows them all with his own lips, pistoning his hips into Atsumu with perhaps excessive force— Atsumu cries out, muffled against Osamu’s mouth, and begins to tense up and tremble the way he does when he’s real close. Osamu grabs onto his hips and fucks into him until Atsumu shakes hard and comes, and Osamu tosses the gold over his shoulder, narrowly avoiding the mess as Atsumu’s come spurts all over his own chest. 

He’s not done just yet, and he’s fired up enough that he can’t guarantee the medal’s safety, so he lifts it off Atsumu’s neck and places it on the bedside table before hoisting Atsumu off his lap and pinning him flat on his back against the bed. “Hold on tight,” is all the warning he gives. Atsumu hooks his shaky, tired legs around Osamu’s hips as Osamu fucks into him, hard and fast and deep, burying his face into the crook of Atsumu’s neck and groaning out disjointed fragments of Atsumu’s name as he comes hard inside of him.

He sees stars for a few long seconds before he pulls out. Atsumu twitches and whines, squirming underneath him as Osamu’s come spills back out, and Osamu rubs a reassuring hand along his hip. He flops over onto his back next to Atsumu, and waits for both of their shaking to subside, for their breaths to even out in unison again.

He looks over at Atsumu, who looks completely wrecked. His hair is a mess, lips wet with spit, and he's smiling like a man on a mission to put the damn sun to shame.

“Hi,” says Osamu stupidly.

Atsumu laughs. “Hi,” he replies.

“So this is official, huh?”

“Yeah,” says Atsumu. “As official as it’ll ever be.”

Osamu kisses the top of Atsumu’s forehead, feeling impossibly giddy. It’s not that either of them ever questioned the idea of being together forever. And it’s not like they ever needed anything as proof. There would be no papers, no ceremony, but Atsumu was right— those five rings meant more to him than one ever could. Looking at Atsumu with the knowledge of what they are now, something warm circles around Osamu’s ribs, and nestles there, making a permanent home.

He mouths three words against Atsumu’s forehead, the words that have followed them all their lives. Words they’ve never needed to say, but want to anyway. In return, Atsumu circles his arms around Osamu, pulling him in close, and, soundlessly, reaffirms his reply in the crook of Osamu’s neck. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/tsumusamuwu) :)


End file.
